


Transition

by hjea



Series: Seasons [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 18:02:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5835457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hjea/pseuds/hjea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucharest in May is not as sunny as advertised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transition

**Author's Note:**

> Continues on from my stories [Fall](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4715855) and [Mayday](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4896793) and probably will make more sense if you check them out first. 
> 
> Thanks as always to Xtine for the look-over!

It was an uncharacteristically overcast day for mid-May in Bucharest, and the cool breeze blowing from the direction of the river had Napoleon half-wishing he had chosen a heavier suit. Sunny and dry though Romania claimed to be, Napoleon could not seem to go anywhere in the Soviet Union without a persistent grey drizzle colouring the landscape. He found the confirmation of his expectations oddly comforting. 

Napoleon spotted Illya exactly where he said he’d be, sitting ramrod-straight with his arms crossed over his chest and an untouched cup of coffee cooling on the small cafe table at his elbow. It was such a familiar pose that Napoleon nearly stopped in his tracks, needing to push down a well of fondness springing up from deep in his chest at the sight of this man after so many months. He gathered himself, mouth twitching in the effort not to smile, and slid smoothly into the seat opposite. Illya nodded at him, face stonily impassive, and glanced over Napoleon’s head. “Solo.” 

“Kuryakin.” Napoleon smirked and nodded back, echoing Illya’s tone, and Illya’s posture relaxed, shoulders loosening as he rolled his eyes in feigned annoyance. 

“This seems very familiar does it not? Outdoor cafe in the rain. You in what I’m afraid to ask could be the very same hat.” 

Illya glanced up at the sky. “It’s not raining.” 

“And we’re hopefully not surrounded by the combined surveillance force of the CIA and KGB.” Napoleon waved a hand. “Close enough. This is a safe place to talk?” 

“As long as you were not followed.” 

“Not since yesterday. What about you, Peril?”

Illya shrugged a shoulder. “My superiors know that I know they are keeping close watch, and so I am allowed freedom to come and go as I please. To a degree.” He gifted Napoleon with a wan smile. “Is all very friendly.” 

Napoleon snorted in acknowledgment. “Have you been here the whole time?” 

“In Bucharest?” Illya laughed once. “No. This is,” he waggled his fingers sarcastically, “vacation. While they decide whether their point has been made and it is safe to send me back to U.N.C.L.E. Or whether I could not benefit from a few more missions first. In Siberia.” 

They paused when the harried looking waiter came to the table and took Napoleon’s order of a black coffee in passable Romanian, returning a minute later to plonk the cup down in front of him with a scowl to make Illya proud. Napoleon took a sip of the coffee, made a face, and set it down again with a sigh. 

“So do you think they’ll let you come back this time?”

“I don’t know.” Illya drummed his fingers on the table top, before catching himself and resting the hand self consciously in his lap. “I think it is more likely now but… you never know. And is probably better not to expect anything.” 

His leg bounced nervously under the table, taking up the rhythm his fingers had abandoned without Illya seeming to notice. Napoleon took pity on him. It was long past time for him to share what he’d come to say. 

“Illya.” Illya met Napoleon’s eyes in surprise at the rare use of his name. “I know Gaby got word to you but…” 

“She couldn’t say much.” Illya confirmed. 

“Then allow me to elaborate. Alex Teller. Born May 5, 1968. Seven pounds and… something. Sorry, can’t remember. Mother and baby are doing well.” 

Illya blinked, struck momentarily dumb, and Napoleon offered him a genuine smile. “Congratulations.” 

“Uh,” Illya made a rather strangled noise, cleared his throat, and tried again. “They’re both…?” 

“They’re really fine, Peril. Doing great even. The event itself seemed to take _forever_ , and Gaby looked like she’d gone about four rounds with a thug in an alley when they finally let me in to see her. But she was also about as smugly triumphant as Gaby usually is after taking down a thug in an alley. So no lasting harm.” 

They shared a brief chuckle, both able to easily conjure up an image of Gaby at her most self-satisfied. 

“On his birth certificate, does it say…?” Illya attempted to look nonchalant. 

“Just Gaby’s name. No father given.” 

Illya nodded jerkily. “That’s good. That’s… we agreed that’s for the best.”

“Regardless of that,” Napoleon reached into his jacket and withdrew a small envelope. “Gaby wanted you to have this.” 

He slid it across the table and waited while Illya picked it up and carefully pulled the photograph out. 

“Gaby took that the day she brought him home. He’s not as puffy now, although all that hair still sticks straight up like that.” 

Illya nodded mutely, eyes wide and unblinking as he drank in the face of his son. 

“Turn the picture over, Peril.” 

On the back of the photo, pencilled in Gaby’s painstakingly careful Cyrillic hand were the words, _Александр Ильич Куряакин_. 

Illya took a deep shaky breath. “Thank you,” he finally managed. He tore his eyes away from the photograph and fixed Napoleon with such a heartfelt look of gratitude it felt like having the air knocked out of him. “And for being there for them both.” Illya continued. “It is a debt--” 

“--No, Illya.” Napoleon cut him off. “It’s been my sincere privilege.” He cleared his throat, struggling to find his way back to a safer level of joviality. “That’s a cute kid you’ve got there. Although he does make a hell of a racket at 3:00 every morning. No doubt who his parents are.” 

Illya tried to smile, although it looked more pinched than Napoleon assumed he was trying for. “I should be there,” he muttered. “I wish…” 

“You might not wish it that much. Gaby makes me change diapers since I’m staying with them.” Napoleon grimaced theatrically. “And there are a lot of them.”

That finally made Illya laugh a little, and looked down once more at the photograph. “Сашенька,” he murmured fondly, before replacing it in the envelope and tucking it in his pocket. “A healthy boy.” 

“He is that.” Napoleon grinned at looked around. “Why don’t we get out of here. There must be plenty of places in this city we can properly wet the baby’s head.” 

Illya stiffened, and he shot a look of his own around the square. “No. Is better if we don’t. I should get back anyway, I have to check in.” 

“Aw come on, Peril.” Napoleon pushed his chair back angrily. “You can’t still think they’re worth all of this.” He gestured at their grey surroundings. “Why don’t you come back with me? You just said you should be there and you know I could get you out. Waverley would protect--”

“--No.” Illya cut him off with an angry hiss. “This is not possible. This is my life’s work, it is important, not to mention how dangerous to everyone if--I can’t just…” He trailed off, hands clenching angrily as he struggled for control. “Just finish your mission here, Solo, and go--” 

“--Home?” 

Illya shot him a withering look. 

“Just go. Please be with my family. And tell Gaby I will see her soon.” 

“Will you?” 

Illya dropped his gaze again. “I will try.” 

With a groan, Napoleon tilted his head upward in frustration, noting how much darker the sky looked than it had ten minutes earlier. Wind rattled the leaves of the few stunted trees around the square, and Napoleon felt the first drops of rain spatter on his face. He shook them off, and with a final sigh got to his feet. He hesitated for a moment and then reached down and gently clasped Illya on the shoulder. 

“Try harder, Peril.” 

Illya dipped his head in acknowledgement, but wouldn’t look at him again. Napoleon turned and walked back the way he had come as the rain picked up in earnest and began driving into his eyes. 

He didn’t look back.

**Author's Note:**

> Александр Ильич Куряакин = Alexander Illyich Kuryakin. Illyich is a patronymic, meaning son of Illya. 
> 
> Сашенька = Sashenka. Cutesy diminutive of Alexander.


End file.
